


Pillow Replacement

by Atisenia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Tumblr: letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2358881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're visiting Sherlock's parents and Sherlock is acting very domestic. Is he only pretending for his parents' sake?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillow Replacement

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock's [Trope Bingo Challenge](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/92844722125/challenge-15-trope-bingo-how-does-one-play). This is the Domestic Fluff trope from Card 4. This was tricky for me to write, I don't really know why. Maybe I just shouldn't write completely fluffy stories, who knows.  
> Also, I'm not a native English speaker and this is not betaed, so if you see any unforgivable errors, just let me know.;) I might have messed up with the tenses in this one... *whistles and looks away innocently*

Sherlock fell asleep with his head on John's lap which John found oddly endearing. Even more so because Sherlock managed to do that in the middle of telling his parents about their latest case. John had been prepared for it; Sherlock hadn't slept properly in three days and he drunk quite a lot of wine during the evening. He said it was necessary to keep him from assassinating his parents, but John didn’t quite believe him.

He felt Mrs Holmes' eyes on him and looked down at his sleeping friend.

"It's fine," he said. "When he's exhausted like this, he can't tell me apart from furniture."

Mrs Holmes' eyes lit up.

"Of course, John," she said. John frowned. She used that tone of voice adults used when they tried to placate a child. He was about to ask about it when Mr Holmes yawned and stretched.

"I think it's time for me," he said. "Too much wine, at my age." He looked at his wife. "Coming?"

Mrs Holmes was about to protest when something in her husband's eyes must have changed her mind.

"Yes, of course, dear," she said and they both stood up. "Do take care of my boy, John."

"I will."

The moment they were gone, he started playing with Sherlock's hair, wishing he could do that when his friend was awake.

He sighed and disentangled himself gently from Sherlock.

"Come on, genius," he spoke softly as to not wake him up completely. "Let's get you into bed."

Sherlock murmured something about the statistical probability of meeting a person named John and let himself be directed from the sofa. It was always easy to get him to bed when he was this exhausted and half-asleep.

John smiled when they went down the hall to their room and Sherlock started babbling about military bases and the density of the desert air. There was certainly a theme to Sherlock's musings this time. John was tempted to ask him about it. It would be so easy in his current state; Sherlock was always more likely to answer questions like this and John made use of it a couple of times. But now it felt wrong, somehow, like a violation of Sherlock's trust, and he didn't want to do that.

They reached the bedroom they were meant to share and John sighed when he saw one bed. Sherlock's parents clearly had ideas about the two of them or maybe Sherlock just didn't care. John didn't really care either, not anymore at least, but that was precisely why the bed might be a problem.

At least it was a big bed.

John positioned Sherlock on it the best he could, then took off his shoes, socks and jacket and covered his once again deeply asleep friend with the duvet. Satisfied, John went to wash and change in the bathroom. When he got back, Sherlock was already sprawled over the whole bed.

"Oh no, you don't," John murmured and shoved him to the right side. Then he crawled into bed himself and fell asleep enveloped in Sherlock's smell.

 

~*~

 

He woke up with Sherlock's head on his chest and started to panic. If Sherlock noticed...

"No, don't do that," his friend's low, alert voice echoed in John's chest. "You're a much better pillow when you're relaxed."

John rolled his eyes. Of course Sherlock would get bored with his perfectly serviceable pillow and try every replacement he could find. He was just lucky that he didn't try John's stomach and pronounced it _soft_.

"Yes, fine, now let me get up," John said, gently pushing at Sherlock's head.

"Why?" Sherlock protested and nuzzled in closer. It was doing dangerous things to John.

"Because I'm actually not a pillow. And I need to use the bathroom."

Sherlock grumbled but rolled over to his side.

"You didn't mind so much yesterday," he said. "And I was considerably closer to your bladder."

John opened his mouth to respond but nothing came to him, so he shut it and shook his head.

"I'll go now," he said and left the room.

When he wandered into the kitchen some time later, he found Mrs Holmes frowning at an army of eggs in a disconcertingly familiar manner.

"Good morning," he said and came to stand by her side. "Are these for breakfast then?" He gestured at the eggs.

"Of course, John," Mrs Holmes said. "What else could they be for?"

"You're forgetting I'm living with your son," John said and smiled.

"Actually, I'm very aware of that fact," she said, still glaring at the eggs. John frowned. "Would you be a dear and chop the onion? I'm rubbish at it, always stick my fingers into my eyes afterwards too. As if crying once isn't enough."

"Right." John took the offered cutting board and knife, and started working on the onion he spotted next to the eggs, thankfully just a squad. It still made him cry quite a lot.

When Mrs Holmes finally started on the eggs, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen with a sour expression, followed closely by his father.

“I don’t even _want_ breakfast,” Sherlock complained sitting on one of the chairs by the table.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t help making it,” Mr Holmes told him and lifted him up by the hem of his dressing gown. “Up you get.”

Sherlock sent John a long-suffering look but his expression soon shifted into concern. John realized his eyes were probably still red and full of tears and swiped at his face with a sleeve of his shirt. Sherlock turned him by the shoulders in an instant.

“John,” he started, searching John’s face. “Are you alright? You’re not hurt, are you? What did you say to him?” He turned to glare at his mother.

“Sherlock...” John carefully put down the knife before Sherlock could hurt himself on it. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been crying,” Sherlock stated.

“Yes.” John pointed at the onion he’d been chopping.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed and deflated. “Well, that’s fine then.”

With his thumb, he swiped a tear John missed and went to help his mother. She quickly had him cutting ham and grating cheese, and Sherlock miraculously didn’t complain. And if he used his knife with more force than was needed, no one saw fit to comment on it.

 

~*~

 

“Would you stop doing that?” John said, trying to attack Sherlock’s hand with his fork.

They were finally eating breakfast after Sherlock nearly ruined their preparations by setting one of the pots on fire. Mrs Holmes was quick to react though and they replaced the burned ham with olives.

Olives that Sherlock kept transferring onto John's plate.

"Why are you complaining?" Sherlock asked, digging out another olive and glaring at it with disgust. "You like olives, I hate them. Giving them to you is perfectly reasonable."

"Maybe John doesn't want to eat your olives, Sherlock," Mr Holmes said. "You're poking around his plate when he tries to eat. Do I need to remind you how much you hate that yourself?"

"It's fine," John said, trying to prevent a fight. "He does hate olives."

"Which all of you chose to ignore when you added them to the eggs," Sherlock grumbled, sticking his fork into his toast.

"Well, if you hadn’t ruined the ham, maybe we wouldn't have had to replace it," Mrs Holmes told him with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock's jaw set but he didn't say anything, just muttered something under his breath.

John took pity on him.

"Give it here," he said and took Sherlock's plate. He found every remaining olive and put them on his plate.

Sherlock looked critically at the state of the eggs after he got his plate back.

"You missed a bit," he said with a pout.

"I think you'll live," John said and grinned at him, and ignored the look Sherlock's parents exchanged.

 

~*~

 

When Sherlock had told him they were going to visit his parents, John didn't expect to enjoy himself so much. He was still mad at Sherlock for not telling him their stay will end with Mrs Holmes' birthday party until they were already on their way and it was too late to even think about buying a present. But as he sat in the small garden with a beer in his hand and watched Sherlock discuss the flower placement with his mother and demand that she plant belladonna and hemlock, he felt rather content with his life. Mr Holmes came to sit next to John with his own beer.

"Has he started insisting on beehives yet?" he asked. "Always does that."

"No. I think they're still deciding on different poisons," John said and turned to face Mr Holmes. "Does he want to kill the bees or poison the honey?"

"No, he genuinely likes the bees. Don't start him on the subject if you don't want a day-long lecture."

John chuckled and took a sip of his beer.

"That's fine," he said. "I survived the lecture on perfume recognition, I think I could manage. He probably wouldn't even notice if I left for a while."

"Mmm... I think he probably would now." John looked at Mr Holmes with surprise. Before he could ask about it, Sherlock's father continued. "How are you holding up?"

John huffed. The question was inevitable, he supposed. After all, the last time he had been in this house, he still had hopes for his future with Mary and his daughter and now...

"I'm... I'm fine," he said but he could tell Mr Holmes saw right through the lie. John took another large sip of his beer. "Sherlock's been a great help, actually."

Mr Holmes looked at him for a moment with a knowing smile and John braced himself.

"He loves you very much."

Ah, there it was. John found himself nodding.

"He's my best friend," he said and shrugged.

"Mmm."

For a moment they observed Sherlock in his designer clothes holding the vegetables his mother kept throwing at him. John could see his frown deepen and was impressed that his friend hadn't snapped at Mrs Holmes yet. As if sensing he was being observed, Sherlock turned to look at his father and John. He gave them a terrified look, an Oscar worthy performance, and John grinned. Sherlock looked offended for a moment but then smiled at him too.

And then he scowled when his mother hit him on the shoulder with a carrot.

"They're quite alike, in some aspects. Sherlock and my wife," Mr Holmes said, startling John. He forgot he was even there. "They try to act like they don't care but actually they care too much."

"What do you mean?" John asked. "I know he cares. In his own way."

Mr Holmes clinked their bottles together.

"I know you do. I just wonder if you know how much."

With that, he left John who frowned at his bottle. He really didn't want to think about what it meant.

The bottle was snatched from him before he could take another sip. He looked up to see Sherlock drinking from it and smiled.

"You survived then," John said.

"Barely." Sherlock grimaced.

"You're such a liar!" John laughed as Sherlock sat beside him and handed him the now empty bottle. "I know you secretly loved it."

"As always, John, you know nothing," Sherlock said. He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the afternoon sun. John couldn't take his eyes off him.

Then Sherlock moved his head to the side and John chuckled.

“Here, let me just...” he said and reached into Sherlock’s hair without thinking. He picked the carrot leaf tangled in the curls and only saw Sherlock smiling at him fondly when he straightened up. He cleared his throat. “All better now.”

“Mmm...” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand still holding the carrot leaf and went back to the house.

 

~*~

 

They went to the nearby town to eat dinner in a small, cosy restaurant. Sherlock complained about the tables being too low for any self-respecting restaurant, but had no qualms about picking chips from John's plate. John retaliated by stealing Sherlock's cherry tomatoes that he asked for specifically, insisting they had a very distinct taste. They tasted like normal tomatoes to John, but at least Sherlock was eating so John didn't voice his opinion.

Then Sherlock went tense when he looked out the window. When he jumped from his chair, John was by his side in an instant.

"What is it?" he asked, glancing nervously at Sherlock's parents who continued eating as if nothing happened.

"I think there was a break-in. We should investigate," Sherlock said, took him by the hand and left the restaurant without another word to his parents.

"Would you just... stop for a second?" John said when they were three streets away and still no explanation was being given.

"In a minute," Sherlock said, looking around. "And that's just an approximation. I don't know exactly how much time it will take me to find— Ah."

He smiled with satisfaction and his fingers twitched. John looked down, bewildered, only just realizing they'd been holding hands all this time. He wondered if Sherlock even noticed.

"Where are we going?" John asked, careful not to alert Sherlock to their current status. They will probably never hold hands again — unless handcuffed and running away from danger — so he was bloody well going to enjoy it while it lasted.

"You've been thinking about buying my mother a birthday present since I told you about the party," Sherlock said, still walking. "Unnecessary sentiment, I assure you, but you insist on thinking about it rather loudly. So. Let's do the shopping and get this over with."

John stared at him with his mouth open wide.

"I thought there was a break-in," he finally said, his voice breaking into high notes.

"No."

"Okay," John said, still dazed. "Everything is closed at this time anyway."

"That might be true," Sherlock conceded. "Luckily for you, a few shop owners in the area owe me some favours. Let's start with this one," he said and pointed at a clothing store. "Mummy could always use another scarf.”

He let go of John’s hand only when they were greeted by the store's owner.

 

~*~

 

John didn't end up buying the scarf. There were beautiful ones he could see Mrs Holmes wearing but if she was anything like her son, she was probably attached to the one she currently had. So it seemed impractical and somehow impersonal to buy her a scarf.

He found the perfect gift in a little shop on the corner of the street. It was a small travel tripod that could help Mrs Holmes take more of those fantastic pictures John had been shown with feigned nonchalance. Sherlock assured him that his mother did not actually have a travel tripod, so John was very pleased with himself and couldn't stop smiling.

They walked back to the restaurant talking and laughing. Sherlock took his hand again, confusing John for a second. But then he saw Sherlock's parents and it all became clear. John had been right: they thought he was Sherlock's boyfriend and Sherlock decided to play along.

John felt a pang of regret but, really, what else did he expect?

"Did you catch the thief?" Mr Holmes asked.

"Yes," Sherlock lied and that was that.

They started walking back towards the house, Sherlock and John a couple of steps before Sherlock’s parents, their hands still clasped together. John felt warm all over and silenced the little part of him that reminded him this wasn't real. He focused on the conversation which didn't involve dead bodies for a change but — perhaps unsurprisingly — bees.

"They're fascinating creatures, John," Sherlock said and launched into a lecture about the colony social structure.

John only smiled and nodded, sometimes he asked a question, not really equipped to contribute to the conversation. Just when he was going to ask about the poisoned honey, a large dog jumped out of the bushes and barked expectantly at Sherlock. John expected his friend to ignore the animal who clearly wanted to play but instead Sherlock let go of John's hand and crouched beside the dog.

"Well, hello," he said and petted the dog. "Who are you then?"

"That's Mrs Sullivan's dog," Sherlock's mum told him. "You know, dear. That lovely young woman who sells crochet toys. Just the other day she—"

"Yes, fine, I remember," Sherlock interrupted her and immediately turned back to the dog. "Then you must be Brutus. A terrible name, I know, but you couldn't help it."

Brutus jumped onto Sherlock's bent knee and Sherlock — and there was no better way to describe it — _cuddled_ the happy animal.

"Why is he running around without supervision?" Sherlock asked, looking sharply at his parents, as if it was their fault. "Someone could hit him with a car or other dogs might hurt him."

"Oh, you know Yvonne," Sherlock's mother said with a shrug. "She forgets to lock that wretched gate of hers all the time. Poor Brutus is just curious. You know, last week he went all the way to the town! Someone wanted to give him to the shelter. Thank God he has Yvonne’s number on his collar, I tell you. Otherwise—"

"She still should be more careful," Sherlock said. John looked at him with surprise when he heard real anger in his voice.

"You two could walk him back," Mr Holmes said. "We'll go ahead and make us all some drinks and then we can watch a movie."

Sherlock grimaced but nodded and straightened up.

"Come on, John," he said and started running back and forth, changing directions often and Brutus followed, barking happily. When John caught up with them, Sherlock’s cheerful laugh warmed his heart.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock lay on the sofa, ostensibly ignoring the film his parents chose in favour of browsing the internet on his phone. John couldn't really hold it against him. The movie was kind of boring, some heavy melodrama he couldn't even remember the title of, but Sherlock's parents seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Sherlock sank lower on the sofa and spread his legs on John's lap. His bare feet were ice-cold.

"You should really wear socks," John murmured quietly and cast a quick glance at Sherlock's parents.

"Boring," Sherlock said and wiggled his toes.

"Maybe we should do some tests. Your feet are always so cold. I wonder if--"

"Yes, _Doctor_ ," Sherlock mocked and his mother sent him a look. They should probably stop talking and ruining the mood for the movie. "If you're so concerned, why don't you try and help?" Sherlock said, quieter.

John blinked at him and Sherlock only looked pointedly at his feet. He wiggled his toes again and John sighed.

"Fine," he muttered and started massaging Sherlock's feet. "Don't get used to it though."

They stayed quiet for a while during which the movie protagonist managed to get himself kidnapped and was now desperately trying to get back to his devastated girlfriend before she would stop being devastated and find a new boyfriend. Or possibly die; he wasn't really following the plot. It wouldn't be so bad if the man actually did something about his situation rather than look sadly at the camera with his perfectly groomed hair — after a week sleeping on the dirty floor.

"You would have escaped from there a long time ago," Sherlock said quietly. John turned to look at him. He didn't think Sherlock was even paying attention to the film. "They made me watch it once," he said and grimaced. "Though I was quickly banished when I started pointing out obvious plot holes and flaws in logic. I watched it through later and took notes."

"How many notebooks did you use?" John whispered.

"None. But I severely damaged my keyboard when I tried to write too much at once."

John chuckled and tried to stifle it in his sleeve when Mrs Holmes cleared her throat pointedly.

"Any good scenes?" John asked anyway because it was Sherlock and proper behaviour somehow didn't apply.

"The dog was clever but then they killed her off, so that's just another reason why this film is not worth anyone's time."

"Boys, do you mind?" Sherlock's mum fixed them with a look.

"Sorry, Mrs Holmes," John said and he focused on Sherlock's feet, now a little warmer.

Thankfully, the movie ended soon after that and they took their opportunity to escape.

"You like dogs then," John said when they were getting ready for bed. He was still slightly amazed by that fact.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply and raised his eyebrows at John. "Your point?"

"No, just... I wasn't expecting that, I guess."

"Mmm..." Sherlock muttered and got into bed. "I suppose I never told you."

"No. No, you didn't." John slid under the duvet beside him. "But then I never asked. I should have, after Baskerville."

Sherlock snorted.

"Yes, well, _that_ dog I wasn't very fond of," he said with a smirk.

"No," John agreed. They looked at each other and burst out laughing. Soon John fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock's steady breathing.

 

~*~

 

This time, John was the one who woke up with his head on Sherlock's chest. He would be mortified by that fact if Sherlock's fingers didn't play gently with his hair. It was an oddly sentimental gesture but John wasn't going to complain.

"Morning," Sherlock said softly.

"Morning," John said and stretched, which sadly made Sherlock remove his fingers. "What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock," Sherlock said and grimaced. "Dad will come fetch us soon and we'll have to make breakfast again."

"Actually, I think you won't be allowed to do much," John told him. "You could burn the kettle or something."

Sherlock grunted and hit him with a pillow.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock kissed him later that day in the middle of his parents' living room and John let him do it. He let himself imagine for a moment that it was real; that Sherlock really _wanted_ to kiss him and didn't just pretend for his parents' sake. So John poured everything into that kiss, every suppressed feeling, every hidden emotion, every silenced word. When they parted, Sherlock was smiling at him and John needed to close his eyes or else he would break.

"Are they gone?" John whispered.

"Who?" There was confusion in Sherlock's voice that made John open his eyes. Sherlock looked at him with a frown.

"Your parents," John said. Sherlock's frown deepened. "It's okay, I understand." John smiled at him fondly. "We can pretend a little bit for them, no harm done, I don't mind."

"Pretend?" Sherlock echoed him flatly and John realized he was still confused. That was unprecedented.

"That we're a couple," John said.

Sherlock blinked at him and then his eyes went wide. He took a step back from John and put his arms around himself.

"Oh," he breathed.

"That's why you kissed me, right?" John said, suddenly unsure. "Because your parents were watching?"

Something in Sherlock's eyes shattered and for a brief moment he looked hurt. Then he put on his usual mask and nodded sharply.

"Of course. Yes. That's-- Why else would I--"

He cleared his throat and fled, leaving John with a feeling that he just messed things up royally.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock didn't come back for dinner that night. That left John with just Sherlock’s parents who didn't really need their son's deductive powers to know something was wrong. And John was lost. What exactly happened in the living room? Sherlock kissed him, yes, and then ran away when John mentioned the pretend relationship. Was he upset he'd been found out? Maybe he expected a different reaction and his data didn't match? Maybe he was afraid John wouldn't forgive him, which was just silly because at this point John would probably forgive him just about anything. Or maybe — and John didn't dare hope — he was genuinely interested in John and was upset that John misunderstood him. Which would be easy to fix, if only it were true.

He made a mess of his fried vegetables and didn't really eat much, even though the food was delicious. He didn't even notice when Mr Holmes finished eating and left him only with Sherlock's mother. Oddly enough, John thought the other way around would be less terrifying.

"He'll come back," Mrs Holmes said from beside him, startling John. He looked up into her familiar, and yet so uncharacteristically soft eyes.

"I know," John said. He didn't really think about Sherlock not coming back. Now that thought made him shudder. "I just... I think I might have done something... not good. A bit."

"That may well be true, John, but you're the most important person in his life and he won't be able to stay away. He tried that already and it didn't work out for him, did it?"

"Maybe it would if he wasn't such a complete di— idiot and didn't try to protect me at all cost."

Mrs Holmes just looked at him with a familiar fondly condescending expression and John nearly started laughing.

"John Watson!" she said. "Don't tell me that if you found a treasure very dear to you, you wouldn't protect it at all cost."

That did make John laugh.

"I'm not Sherlock's treasure," he said. "His mind—"

"Won't make him happy. Not entirely. It never really has and it’s always been difficult to watch him struggle." She took his hand and looked him in the eye. "You seem confused, so I'll help you understand. Sherlock is in love with you. He certainly didn't hold your hand or kiss you or... whatever he's done to trigger this reaction for our benefit. When did you ever know Sherlock to do something he didn't want to do just for the good opinion of other people? Well, maybe excluding yourself, which says quite a lot."

She fixed him with one last look and let him process her words in peace.

 

~*~

 

John was an idiot. A colossal moron. Sherlock would be right to call him that on a daily basis because he really saw but didn't observe.

This wasn't a game for Sherlock. It wasn't even something he pretended to do for his parents’ sake. Sherlock wanted John. Sherlock had been trying to let John know about this little fact ever since John came back from the hospital after that stakeout gone wrong two months ago. There were casual touches now and then that John barely noticed, more simple, not case related outings, and then the hug that John assumed was meant to distract someone following them. But then no one was coming and Sherlock seemed so... content after the whole thing, after John didn't push him away but instead hugged him back.

Then they really got a case, and then Mycroft made them visit Sherlock's parents, and here they were. Sherlock hadn't been doing anything new but John just assumed...

And now Sherlock was out there somewhere, thinking John didn't want him. That he was just playing along.

It was unacceptable.

He was just about to go out and search for him, even though he knew that if Sherlock didn't want to be found, he would have no luck, when the front door opened and Sherlock appeared, reeking of cigarette smoke.

"Sherlock!" John called and hurried to meet him.

"John," Sherlock returned with a small nod. He seemed calm if reserved and John longed for the easiness that had been between them only a few hours ago. Sherlock searched John's face and sighed. "I didn't mean to worry you. I was simply—"

"I'm an idiot," John blurted. "I am so sorry, Sherlock."

A brief grimace of nearly physical pain passed through Sherlock's face so quickly that John barely registered it.

"It's not your fault," Sherlock said, fiddling with his jacket.

"No." John started shaking his head because he wasn't going to let Sherlock believe any more stupid things. "No, that's not— Ah, fuck it."

He crowded Sherlock against the door and kissed him, and didn't let go until Sherlock kissed him back. He was rubbish at talking, they _both_ were, but they could do _this_. So they kissed and kissed and kissed until they had to break away for air.

"John," Sherlock breathed.

"I know. I'm an idiot. I should have realized but—"

"Come to bed," Sherlock told him and nuzzled John's neck. John shivered.

"Your parents are next door," he said.

"Mmm... remind me to kill Mycroft for that later, slowly and painfully." He looked John in the eye. "We'll manage."

John grinned. "God, yes."


End file.
